My Favorite Toothpaste Flavor is Minty Death
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: "I'd rather be dead," Lassiter said blandly, crossing his arms. Shawn grinned. "Then I have some good news for you, Mr. Lassiter." One-shot. Complete.


My Favorite Toothpaste Flavor is Minty Death

 **Summary** : "I'd rather be dead," Lassiter said blandly, crossing his arms. Shawn grinned. "Then I have some good news for you, Mr. Lassiter." One-shot. Complete.

 **Rating** : T for death.

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own _Psych_.

"I'd rather be dead," Lassiter said blandly, crossing his arms.

Shawn grinned. "Then I have some good news for you, Mr. Lassiter."

The detective was rather taken aback at the formal address from the younger man. Never had Shawn Spencer, (fake) psychic detective (consultant), used his full surname. And then the meaning of the entire sentence hit him. "Excuse me?" he spluttered. "Listen, Spencer, I don't know what in the name of sweet justice you're trying to pull, but this isn't funny. Open that door. I have work to do."

"What door?" Shawn asked innocently.

With a growl, Lassiter spun on his heel to point out the obvious, only to stop short when he saw a blank white wall where a door had been only a moment ago.

The chair scraped as Shawn stood, looking uncharacteristically serious. "Mr. Lassiter," he said, "please sit down. I promise that everything will be explained to you in due time."

"Due time?! Where the hell did the door go? Spencer, I haven't got time for this!"

"Mr. Lassiter…"

"Don't call me that!"

"Would you be more comfortable with Lassie? Or Lassifrass? Or Lassidolphidus? How about Detective?"

"No! Just—stop. Stop talking."

Shawn did, waiting patiently as Lassiter ran to the wall and pushed at it, then knocked against it to check for hollowness. When it yielded nothing, he moved to the next wall, and then the third, and the fourth, only to find himself trapped. He stomped on the floor, certain that there would be an escape.

"I _know_ I came in through a door," he exclaimed angrily.

"You did," Shawn agreed. "But the door is gone now. It will come back when you're ready."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Please sit down, and I'll explain everything. That's why I'm here."

Lassiter didn't want to do anything Shawn Spencer told him to do, let alone this weird version of Shawn who was calm and collected, with his hair combed neatly and his collared shirt tucked into his slacks. This wasn't the Spencer Lassiter knew.

"Who are you?" he frowned.

"Who do you want me to be?" he asked promptly.

Lassiter said nothing, only glared at him.

The other smiled. "I'm the last face you saw."

"Of course it had to be Spencer," Lassiter mumbled. "Well? What happened? Did he do something stupid that got me killed?"

"No. He tried to save you."

"Yeah? I'll bet you my entire savings that he tried to save me _after_ whatever it was he did that got me killed."

Shawn smiled patiently.

"All right, listen," Lassiter said. "Obviously you don't know the last thing about Spencer aside from his face. He doesn't dress like that or act like that. Be someone else, why don't you?"

In the blink of an eye, formal Shawn disappeared.

Lassiter started. He'd still half-expected for it all to be a joke, for Spencer to start laughing at him and revealing that it was all a big hidden-camera show. But he was just…gone.

"Is this better?" asked a voice behind him.

The detective whirled around, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "O'Hara?!"

She smiled. "Mr. Lassiter. Are you ready to listen?"

"I—don't—you…" He scowled. "You're still not doing it right."

Juliet looked down at herself, wiggling her toes in her fluffy pink bunny slippers. Her pastel green pajamas were satiny and gleamed in the white light. "What's wrong with it?"

"I'm in Hell, aren't I?" Lassiter deadpanned.

"You're not in Hell," she said. "You're not in Heaven, either."

"Then where?"

"Here."

"All right, why don't you turn into someone who can answer my questions?"

Juliet pouted her lower lip. "I _can_ answer your questions. You just won't let me, Mr. Lassiter."

Lassiter took a deep breath and held it, counting to ten in his head as his therapist had taught him. When he opened his eyes again he felt marginally in more control. He strode to one of the padded chairs that faced one another and sat, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest.

"Well?" he said gruffly, jerking his head toward the other seat.

Juliet smiled and flounced over, bunny slippers squeaking like a dog's chew toy with each step. He resisted the urge to rip them off her feet.

"Okay," she sat as she sat. "First, I'm going to explain some stuff, and then if you have any questions, you can ask and I'll answer them. Okay?"

Lassiter glared at her, mouth pressed into a firm hard line.

"Great!" she exclaimed. "Okay, so this place is—"

"You know what?" Lassiter interrupted. "I think I preferred that weird version of Spencer like you were when I was first here. Go back to that."

Her smile deflated into a wince. "Oh…Too peppy?"

"Too peppy."

"Okay."

In an instant the cheerleader Juliet had disappeared, and revealed the businesslike Shawn from before. "Better?" he asked, spreading his arms.

"Sit down and get on with it."

"Fair enough." Shawn sat down, hands in his lap. "Now, this place is what most people call Limbo. Are you familiar with the concept?"

"I am. Skip forward."

"While you're in this in-between world where you wait for judgment, you're greeted by a guardian—in your case, me—who explains everything, which is what I'm doing now. The person who'll be judging you is currently reviewing your case, and will decide whether you should go to Heaven, Hell, back to Earth, or be reborn. Got it?"

Lassiter narrowed his eyes, but nodded shortly.

"When you died, you followed the white light into this room. We call it the Briefing Room, for obvious reasons. As you know, the door has disappeared. It will reappear once everything has been explained to you, and when you are ready for Judgment."

"All right…That's it?"

"That's it. I know you must have a lot of questions. I'll be glad to answer them for you."

"Don't you have a…true form or something?"

"Yes, but your human eyes are too limited to view it," said Shawn, almost smugly.

"Then why don't you take the form of a stranger? What's the point of taking faces I know and making them different people?"

"Most people prefer to have familiar faces," said Shawn, cocking his head to the side. "But if I were to behave in the exact likeness of the person whose face I'm using, you could get confused between this place and Earth."

The detective was quiet for a moment, mulling it over. "So you used the face of the man who may or may not have indirectly murdered me?"

"Shawn cannot be held accountable for your death," said the guardian.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Even my guardian angel is on that guy's side."

"I am on no one's side."

"Fine. How did I die?"

"I will show you," said Shawn, standing. He reached out and pressed his first two fingers to Lassiter's brow.

"Wha—huh?" he snorted, eyes blinkering open stickily. Automatically, his hand shot out and pounded his digital alarm clock, which was beeping loudly. He groaned, the remnants of his dream beginning to fade.

"Sweet mother of justice," he croaked groggily. Then he rolled himself out of bed and started his day.

Toilet; shower; brush teeth; comb hair; dress in work clothes; coffee; keys; shoes; drive to SBPD HQ; park; clock in; sit; boot up computer; coffee. This was his morning routine, and he was damn proud of it because he was on time for work every day no matter what.

Not long after, his junior partner Juliet O'Hara arrived, looking fresh as a daisy to his Grumpy Cat.

"Good morning, Carlton," she said.

"Hrm."

"Bad night?"

"Hrm."

Juliet gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't worry, Carlton. We'll catch them."

"Of course we will," he groused, rifling through a case file. "I have a nearly 100% solve rate, O'Hara."

"Yeah," she agreed readily. "Of course."

"Ah, my two favorite detectives!" cried a familiar voice.

Lassiter's mood plummeted even as Juliet turned and greeted the psychic detective Shawn Spencer. It was way too early.

"Hey, Shawn. You're here early today."

"Good morning to you, too, Jules," Shawn responded. "And Lassie, you're wearing my favorite pinstriped underwear today." He winked sultrily at the head detective, whose ears immediately felt heated even before he realized that he _was_ wearing his pinstriped underpants today.

"What do you want, Spencer?" he asked angrily. "It's seven in the morning."

"Oh, Lassie. You know I can't control when the spirits contact me. It just so happens that I solved the case!"

Juliet's face lit up as Carlton's darkened.

"You did?"

Shawn nodded, lifting his fingers to his temples. "They've split up. They're scared," he whispered for dramatic effect. "Jones is nearly to the Mexican border now, and Garrett went camping in the mountain range. Ford is dead."

"I'll call the border patrol and tell them to keep an eye out for him," Juliet said. "If he's driving the getaway car, it should be easy to spot."

"Bullet holes do make for an eye-popping visage," Shawn remarked. He cast a sidelong glance at Lassiter. "Of course, bullets are also good for popping tires, so the car can't go anywhere."

"Shut up, Spencer." Lassiter rubbed a hand down his face. "I guess we need to scrounge up a search party—unless your _spirits_ know which campground Garrett's at?"

"You know as well as I do that trees all look alike," Shawn explained patiently. "But I am positive that if you were to take me with you during the manhunt the spirits would be more than willing to point me in the right direction."

"I'd rather piss off a WWE champion." He turned back to his desk and worked on ignoring the psychic.

"C'mon, Lassie! I thought you wanted to catch the guys, not scare 'em off."

One didn't need to be psychic to know that was the wrong thing to say, especially at 7:14 in the morning. Juliet was quick to abandon Shawn to her senior partner's wrath, but Shawn didn't seem at all perturbed by the tense atmosphere. Rather, he was looking smugly at Carlton as he slowly turned around, coffee mug clenched in a tight fist.

"All right, Spencer. You asked for it. Follow me, _now_."

"Where are we going? Can we stop for waffles?"

Carlton didn't deign to respond to that, merely storming out of the bullpen with long strides, coffee mug still in hand. Shawn followed at his heels, apparently not sensing the intense irritation that emanated from the man before him.

Only once they had descended the outside steps into the humid Santa Barbara morning air did the head detective spin around. "Listen, Spencer," he said curtly, stopping the younger man short, "I am most definitely not in the mood for your act today, got it? Why don't you and Guster go and jump off a bridge?"

Shawn considered it. "Well, that depends on which bridge you have in mind, Lassie. Is it a really high one? Because in that case I think we'll have to pass. If the bridge you're talking about is the one on the mountains over that pretty little creek, then sure, I could probably convince Gus to go for a swim with me. But that would have to wait until we caught the bad guys, don't you think?"

Lassiter ground his teeth. There were days he wished he hadn't taken that oath to protect civilians, if only so he could beat the sarcasm out the younger Spencer. With each passing second he was more fervently wishing that this Shawn Spencer behaved like the one in his disturbing dream.

"Spencer, I'm only going to say this once. Do _not_ , under any circumstances, get further involved in this case. It is my case, not yours. Are we clear?" Lassiter fixed a stern glare on the psychic, who, for once, appeared to be genuinely put off.

"But," he protested.

"No."

"I can—"

"No."

"But, Lass—"

"Grr."

Shawn's jaw clicked shut, and Carlton nodded in satisfaction.

"Your job as _psychic_ _consultant_ , Spencer, is to have your little visions about the cases, and then report them, not follow up on them. Which is exactly what you just did, so you are no longer needed around the station. Now get out of here before I arrest you for obstruction of justice." Carlton jerked his thumb toward Shawn's Norton, which was parked nearly on the sidewalk, helmet hanging over one handlebar.

Shawn pouted his lips, but apparently had resigned himself to a day of no interactivity with the SBPD.

Feeling marginally proud of himself for being able to calmly tell off the psychic, Carlton pushed past him and made his way back inside. He took a victory sip of his coffee, and the bitterness was quelled even as he heard the sound of a certain motorcycle roaring to life. Today just might be a good day, after all.

"Did Shawn leave?" Juliet asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Lassiter smiled contentedly. "Yes," he sighed, heading to his desk with a bounce in his step that hadn't been there before.

Because he and Juliet were the leads on the current case, they were the ones to get together the search party and map out the details. There were only so many campgrounds and cabins up in the mountains, and though there was every chance that Garrett was hiding out somewhere else, they were determined to look into every lead. These were murderers, after all.

Murderers who had eluded the SBPD for nearly three months.

It was determined that they would leave out the next day, so as to give everyone involved time to prepare. Lassiter spent the rest of the morning briefing the party on the criminal and the suspicions of his whereabouts, indicating the three sites on the map. The party would be divided into three teams, with the Head Detective as chief coordinator.

Just the way Lassiter liked it.

So when the next morning arrived Lassiter was one of the first at headquarters, toting a tired-looking O'Hara and a backpack full of survival equipment. The campgrounds were extensive, after all. The teams divided up, double-checked, and headed out.

Lassiter's mood plummeted upon arrival at his designated campsite.

Parked in the furthest lot was a very familiar Norton. Sitting astraddle it was a very familiar psychic, who waved cheerily as the detective brought his Crown Vic to a halt. He ground his teeth. "For the love of Mike," he muttered, jerking the car into park.

"Hey, Lassie! I didn't get the invite, so I had to take a guess at the meeting time. Looks like I'm early! I've only been waiting for two hours. Come on, we're losing daylight!"

Carlton slammed the door. "The rest of the team isn't here yet, and you're not coming, Spencer. This is real police work, not play time. I know you're too childish to be able to understand the difference—"

Shawn grinned. "You underestimate me. I understand the difference perfectly."

"The point is," Lassiter growled, "you are not welcome here. Leave now."

"But if I leave then my psychic directional sense can't lead you to the bad guy. And Gus isn't here to make sure I don't go off on my own. Are you going to accept responsibility for that? 'Cause I'm not."

The detective glared at him, eyebrows forming a perfect V.

Shawn put his hands up to his temples in his classic pose, cocking a brow. "This way!" he cried jubilantly, darting off into the trees.

Carlton jumped, startled, mouth dropping open. "Sp—Spencer! Get back here!"

Then again, he shouldn't have been so surprised. That's the exact kind of stunt the younger Spencer _would_ pull, if only to piss the head detective off.

And knowing him, he would likely get himself lost while he was at it.

So Carlton, of course, had no choice but to follow, hiking up his bag. Maybe he could catch up to him and drag the moron back before anyone else arrived.

Just as he was about to catch up—Carlton was dressed for the occasion and had longer legs—Shawn veered off the beaten path and weaved through the trees.

"Spencer!"

The detective followed, nearly losing an eye as a branch whipped back from Shawn's passage. He swore loudly, but didn't slow down until he began to lose his breath. It was a literal uphill battle, trying to catch up. Not only did Shawn have a head start, but he seemed to possess the sheer determination that drove his father. It was an uncanny resemblance.

"C'mon, Lassie! We're almost there."

Carlton moved his hand from the stitch in his side to his gun harness, prepared to apprehend Garret should he be waiting at the top. Or, if Garret wasn't there, he'd use it on Spencer, then drag him back down the mountain.

As the hill became steeper, Lassiter had to work harder to climb, grasping at the trees and saplings to aid his ascent. Finally, he reached the top, glancing about the field in which he found himself for the perp, only find it completely deserted but for him and the idiot psychic. The head detective pushed himself to his feet, breathing heavily.

Shawn turned and grinned at him, not a bead of sweat to be seen despite the fact that he was wearing jeans and two layers of shirts. "You made it. Good for you! I'm sensing…he's this way."

"Oh no you don't," Carlton growled, lunging forward and grasping Shawn's arm. "We're going back down, and we're going to meet up with everyone else. This a team effort, not follow the psychic."

"Dude, we can handle it!" Shawn protested, struggling against Lassiter's insistent pulling. "He's just on the other side of those trees, I can feel it!"

"So help me, Spencer, if you don't come with me right now I'll make sure you never find another job in California—or on this half of the continent, for that matter!"

"Does that include Canada?"

"Grr!"

In that split second of distraction, Shawn broke away and was once again running full tilt. "Come on! He'll get away."

Detective Lassiter still had not caught his breath, and the heat was making his skin itch. Or maybe that was Spencer's fault. He was halfway across the meadow that he began to realize that something was really wrong. Shawn had already gone ahead, expecting his frenemy to be right on his heels.

Carlton fumbled for his walkie as a dizzy spell hit him. The scenery around him turned blurry, spinning madly as though he were on a carousel, then grew dim. He was vaguely aware of a gasping sound, like a dying fish, but did not quite associate it with himself until he realized he wasn't getting enough air, and that was the problem.

But why couldn't he breathe?

His body began to feel heavy and light all at once. He suddenly found himself looking up at the sky, the too bright sky. Lassiter rolled to one side, intending to get up again. If he stopped moving, if he couldn't find help, he'd die.

And then someone was with him, pushing him onto his back.

Carlton tried to explain that he couldn't breathe, but his throat was too tight. There was no more air flow. He choked, heart thudding frantically in his chest, ears filled with the sounds of the sea, though that made no sense because he was on a mountain.

He heard a faint voice, and remembered that there was someone there. He needed to tell them to get him to a hospital. Lassiter searched them out, and found him: Shawn was kneeling at his side, one hand on the detective's shoulder, the other holding the walkie to his mouth as he called for help and gave directions to their location.

Of all the people…

And then Shawn dropped the walkie and turned to Lassiter, asking frantic questions that he couldn't understand or answer. And Lassiter still couldn't breathe. Darkness was closing in on his vision, his blood was slowing. He began to feel heavier and heavier, until he wasn't so sure why he was fighting anymore. Why not just go to sleep and figure it out later?

Just before he lost consciousness, he saw Shawn dig into his pocket and come out with his Swiss army knife and a chewed-up pen, a frightened but grim expression on his face.

Not-Shawn removed his fingers from Carlton's forehead and sat back with a neutral look.

Lassiter blinked rapidly, finding himself in the strange, doorless room. "What the hell?" he uttered. "What was that?! What just happened?"

"You died," Shawn said. "Your mint allergy. Those plants growing along the hill and in the meadow were field mints. Contact allergy is rarely fatal, but you were unlucky enough to be one of those cases. If Shawn had known about the allergy, he might have used the epi pen in your bag."

Carlton felt sick. "So, what, he just sat back and held my hand while I asphyxiated?"

Shawn cocked his head. "He performed a tracheotomy."

"With…with a pen and a knife?!" Carlton asked, appalled. He put a hand up to his throat, as though expecting to feel the incision or the pen sticking out of it. "You know what? I bet that's what killed me, not the allergic reaction."

Shawn shook his head. "No, he actually bought you a few more minutes to wait for help."

Lassiter held up a finger. "Only a few minutes because he did it wrong because he's not a doctor."

The guardian gave a small, noncommittal smile.

The detective sat back with a scowl, folding his arms over his chest. "So what now?"

"Now you await Judgment, Mr. Lassiter."

"How long will that take?"

"Who knows?" Shawn answered. "Just out of curiosity, Mr. Lassiter, what is it you hope will happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you wish to go to Heaven? To Hell? To be reborn? Or to continue living on Earth?"

"What kind of idiot question is that?" Lassiter made a face. "Of course I want to go on living so I can shoot the man responsible for this. I knew that damn Spencer would be the death of me. I don't know what everybody sees in him."

"Then it shall be, Mr. Lassiter. Good luck."

With that, Shawn leaned forward again and touched Carlton's forehead.

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

 _Beep._

Automatically, Lassiter's hand shot out to pound his digital alarm clock, only to strike empty air. His eyelids cracked open with difficulty. He must have forgotten to close his blinds last night, because it was far too bright for any decent human being.

"Oh my god, Carlton!"

The noise, which had been made by his partner Juliet, drew his attention. She had jumped to her feet the moment she saw that he was awake, and was at his side in an instant.

"How are you feeling? Hold on, I'm going to go get the doctor, you just stay here. Oh, well, you can't really go anywhere, 'cause you're…never mind, I'm going to get a doctor. Be right back." She pranced out, leaving Carlton alone with sluggish thoughts and an annoying EKG machine.

He turned his head to the side so as to watch for her return, only to find that there was a big window on the wall so that his room could be looked into. And who should be standing on the other side but Shawn Spencer?

Shawn gave a tiny smile and waved, but made no indication of entering. The doctor had already given them the rundown, and Shawn would wait until Lassie had a bit of time to digest that Shawn was a hero before bragging about it.

Gus appeared, carrying two coffees from the cafeteria. When he saw the detective was staring through the window at them, he nodded cordially to him, then turned and scowled discreetly at Shawn. "I cannot believe you almost got Lassie killed, Shawn."

"Eh," Shawn said. "He'll be fine. Look at him."

"He looks like he wants to kill you, Shawn."

"No, he just looks tired, Gus. I'm sure when he wakes up a bit more he'll smile joyously and clap his heels together, and we will go forth together and frolic in a field that is not filled with deadly minty things."

"Shawn. We should leave before he figures out how to make his legs work again."

"Agreed."

End.


End file.
